Mercury Falling
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: So before Agents of SHIELD aired, this is how I pictured Phil getting all resurrected... 'There's the faintest line of red at the seam of his lips, the colour sharp against the pallor of his skin, but if it weren't for this he really could be sleeping, his face is so peaceful. Oh Phil…'


**Spoilers:** Marvel Movies right up to Avengers.

**Warnings: ** Blatant disregard for Comic!Canon. I'm so _nouveau_ to this fandom it's probably painful.

**AN:** So, before it was all Jossed to hell by Agents of SHIELD, I wondered how we were getting Phil back and then wrote this. It's not complete, obviously, but this is as far as I got before the Jossing, so. If you'd like more, let me know, because I wasn't really planning on going forward with it otherwise.

Also, Sir-Mercutio-McHuffer is an enabling enabler who enables.

* * *

**An Unauthorized Marvel One-Shot:**

**Mercury Falling**

**1.**

The rain began this morning and has yet to cease, May thunder rolling in from the Waikato, chasing the torrential autumn downpour and the distant lightning that splits the dark Auckland skyline. The footpaths are washed out and the gutters clotted with waterlogged leaves, downtown's skyscrapers and the suburban mountains disappearing under a veil of low cloud and grey rain.

And of course, just to put the tin lid on it, the traffic is an absolute _bastard_.

Hellie has maybe five minutes to drop into her deskchair and think about how she's going to get her shoes to dry, before Sophie from reception is leaning over her privacy divider and hissing, "There's some dude in a _suit_ asking for you out front!"

Hellie stares back at her, one eyebrow rising. "He's wearing a suit?"

"I know, right!"

Hellie knows all about men in suits. This is a not-for-profit investigation organisation; anyone who walks in that door in a suit is a) trying to sell something, b) trying to buy them off or c) has been just been to meet a client. (They don't bring clients back to the central office any more – not since someone who couldn't buy them off decided the next best thing was to, well, blow them up).

So, it's weird enough that some dude in a _suit_ is asking for her, but it's doubly so that he's asking for _her_. She doesn't deal with clients face to face. It means she gets to wear jandels around the office in summer.

It stops being weird and starts being horrifying when she steps out of the lift and recognises the dude in the suit.

She mentally adds d) staff member of international intelligence organisation to the 'dudes in suits' list, because this is Roy.

Her handler.

"No," she says, but Roy just sighs his long-suffering sigh at her and puts his hands in his pockets, because they both know she's going to go back upstairs, get her stuff and walk out the door with him and get into the back of that black sedan without saying boo.

Because when they send Roy, it can only mean one thing.

**oOo**

"So did you call Finn and Jordin, too?"

"It's not like that. We just need you this time. And your brothers… talents are better spent doing what they're doing," which is Roy, and therefore SHEILD's way of saying 'Finn is unruly to the point of scaring us and Jordin just plain scares us'.

Jordin, despite the vitality of his occupation, has always said she was the most powerful of all the three of them, and maybe it's true, but it hasn't helped her say no to these people.

Maybe it's because of what they ask her to do. And she can't help herself, she really can't.

"Ah," she says, accepting the dish of honey roasted peanuts Roy hands her – no flight staff apart from the pilots on this plane, too secret – and adds, "So who am I being called in for?"

Roy looks uncomfortable, and sadder than usual, and can't look at her. A chill that reminds her of her mother's home finds its way down her spine.

"Who?" Hellie demands softly.

When Roy looks back up at her, his brown eyes are pained.

"Phil," he says.

**oOo**

"This is new," she says, as their pilots, with infinite care, somehow manage to land their little plane on the tarmac of the _helicarrier_ (of all things) that shimmered into view a few minutes ago. "What happened to the aircraft carrier?"

"This _is_ the aircraft carrier," Roy says, as if that's a logical explanation, and Hellie can only stare at him, before narrowing her eyes and saying accusingly, "You people have too much money."

They wait while the plane is secured to its berth, and when the pilots call the affirmative Roy ushers her to the door. It opens and there's a rush of pressurized air and she sees a miniaturized version of the walkway tunnels they use for commercial passenger planes; "Too dangerous to walk across the tarmac while we're in the air," apparently.

Hellie nods and follows Roy up the tunnel. It leads to an antechamber…and Director Fury.

"Nick," Hellie says, because she's too old to be going about addressing any of these people by their surnames.

He gives her the hairy eyeball and greets her with, "Ms Harmerkind," as usual – it still makes her feel like a schoolteacher – "So glad you could make it."

He's always so polite about it, _mostly_, Hellie thinks, _because he's met Jordin_. People are always polite to her after they meet Jordin.

"Yeah, well," Hellie says, and offers a smile, "this time I'm glad you called."

**oOo**

She rather thought they'd take her to the infirmary, same as usual; but instead they pass its hermetically sealed doors for another identical set further down the hallway.

The morgue.

Hellie feels that chill again.

When she casts a look at Nick, he looks apologetic (as much as Nick Fury can look apologetic) and explains: "We…had a few people who needed to say goodbye."

She nods, and when they enter, the doors hissing shut behind them, the wave of grief that assaults her is almost as cold as the air itself.

"God," she breathes in reflex, grinding to a halt.

"Ms Harmerkind?"

"I'm fine," she says, swallowing past the sympathetic lump in her throat.

Whoever came here and grieved for Phillip Andrew Coulson did so passionately, and there were several of them, too. If she tried, she could sort through each imprint they left behind and discern the nature of their relationship to Phil, maybe even see their faces… But she doesn't want to cry in front of these men, not when she has a job to do, and so she breathes deep and approaches the mortuary tables.

Phil is lying on the farthest one from the door, sheltered from sight by a moveable fabric screen and covered with a hospital blanket, instead of a sheet. She notices there's another one beneath him, between him and the cold steel of the table, and a third folded to support his head. There's the faintest line of red at the seam of his lips, the colour sharp against the pallor of his skin, but if it weren't for this he really could be sleeping, his face is so peaceful. _Oh Phil…_

Hellie closes her eyes and tries to regulate her breathing. She's done this for others, for strangers and friends alike, but it's been a while. And seeing him like this is _hard…_

She draws a final deep breath and moves to stand at the head of the table, looking down the length of his still body. Her eyes close again and she lifts her hands to cradle Phil's head, a palm over each of his temples.

"You may wanna take a step back," she hears Nick tell the rest of the security detail, and then sinks down, down, down…

Fog pools around the legs of the table, spilling like the folds of a bridal gown, like falling salt or puffs of ash or plumes of white water. The air temperature plunges, and frost creeps across the windows…yet the air is wavering around Hellie and Phil's body, bending within a cocoon of heat. Hellie's dark hair lifts in the current, dancing like kelp in a cold ocean.

Her skin, smooth and pale and young, begins to blacken down the left side of her body, as though burnt or frostbitten, until her skin splits with a sound that's on the cusp of human hearing. Whispering blue light flows out of her, illuminating the web of strange patterns, ancient designs, perhaps even words in forgotten tongues hidden amongst the constellations and spirals that the cracks in her skin have formed.

If she had been listening, Hellie would have heard one of the security detail start to swear in French, and seen the looks of bafflement on their faces. Only Roy and Nick Fury remain grim and unmoved.

But Hellie is far away, deep, deep down…

"…_even I don't know what it does. You wanna find out?"_

_She sees the Trickster's face and her hands tremble. She feels the blade pierce Phil and a sound catches itself behind her teeth. She can taste the blood in his mouth, hear it rushing in his ears._

The blue light bleeds from her, into him, cold liquid fire finding its way into his veins through the seam of his mouth, creeping under his closed eyelids, digging its way under his nails and slinking into his ears…

_She watches Loki step past him as his body hits the ground, still breathing but it's hard now, the pain immobilizing him, pinning him down. _

Blue beats in his veins, down and down and down into his marrow, roiling into his heart.

_But it forces him awake; enough to see Loki's hand hit the pad that sends the cage careening down into the abyss below the carrier – he feels sick, because Thor_ (Thor…?) _will not survive that fall…_

"_You're going to lose."_

Blue finds the tear in his heart, the place where the tip of the spear grazed the threads of the muscle and set it fraying like a rope.

The threads wind back together…

"_Am I?"_

"_It's in your nature."_

_What are you doing…?_

"_Your heroes are scattered. Your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?"_

Blue, cold, arctic morning blue, seethes like a riptide, and his heart is helpless to follow. His lungs plump like the bellows of forge and then –

"_You lack conviction."_

Light bursts through the room with the force of a sonic boom – _Loki flies backwards, away from them_ – casting their silhouettes against the walls and the fabric screen. Phillip Coulson's body gasps and the air whistles into him like a winter storm; his spine bows so hard that his body lifts clear off the table. His head curves back and his eyes meet hers.

But he's not just a body anymore.

**2.**

Hellie sits, wreathed in sunlight, and watches him sleep.

One would expect the newly resurrected to want to be up and doing things, but it's almost as exhausting for him and it is for her, and so he sleeps, and dreams, and fights off the residual cold that she has left behind.

_Birth is water and blood_, Hellie reflects, _but rebirth is fire and ice_. Phil shifts in his sleep, shivering, and she draws the thermal blankets further up his shoulders.

There are footsteps, and then Roy comes in, bearing a fully loaded tea tray of all things.

"You remembered," Hellie says softly, smiling.

Roy smiles back, briefly alleviating those perpetually sad eyes of his, and says, "'Course I did," as he begins to unload the tray onto the nearby table.

They are, by Nick's direction, in a set of rooms set away from the staff barracks and the regular facilities. It's actually a meeting room, but has been outfitted as private quarters purely because of its windows – wide, covering almost an entire wall, and tinted to prevent passing air traffic from peeping in.

"Who would peep at us?" Hellie wanted to know.

"Certain members of staff are capable of flight," Nick had said, looking long-suffering. "And at least one of them – who shall remain nameless – most definitely falls into the peeping category."

Over his shoulder, Roy mouthed, "Stark."

Now he adds, "It really has to be sunlight? We can just stick him under a UV lamp?"

"Has to be sunlight," she confirms. "It's not just the UV he needs. It's… like breathing air. You don't just get oxygen, you get scents and tastes and sometimes textures. He's not just getting UV; he's getting light and more importantly warmth, and that familiarity that comes with daylight."

She reaches out, carefully touching her old friend's face. He sighs in his sleep and leans into the curve of her hand.

"It's something for him to find his way back to…"

**oOo**

Nick arrives after half the pot has been demolished and Hellie is back to sitting beside Phil's bed, her fingertips resting against his, waiting for even the faintest twitch.

Roy sits in a chair near the door with an old paperback, his eyes periodically sliding from the text, over the top of the book to find her and her patient. When Nick enters the room he stands and puts down the book, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Outside, Agent Osborne," Nick says, ignoring Roy's look of surprise. The Director waits until the door has sealed before he pulls up one of the chairs to sit facing Phil's bed, at right angles to Hellie. She watches him for a moment.

"He was very far gone," she says softly after almost a full minute of silence. "At first I wondered why you would wait so many days before calling me to tend to him, but then I saw him and…"

Nick's face is carefully neutral. "And?"

"You know what happens when I bring someone back. You knew I would see the killing blow. And the one who inflicted it."

Hellie keeps her own tone very, very level but gives in to the desire to enfold Phil's hand with her own. His fingertips are still cool, but his palm is warm.

"I knew you'd see him," Nick confirms quietly. "And I will admit I was curious to see how you would react."

"Just say it, Nick," Hellie sighs, meeting his eyes, letting her frustration (and a little of the betrayal) show. "You weren't certain of my loyalties; so I was a last resort." She glares. "Two days longer and I would not have been able to retrieve him alone."

Nick sits back, mouth twisting in a way that means he's in a situation that he can't change and it pisses him off something fierce.

"All our assets have been tested since the attack."

She feels he heart stutter and tightens her grip on Phil. "My brothers, they were tested, too?"

"Finn just joined PETA and if Jordin had anything against humanity the planet would stop turning, so…"

"Really it's just me," she mutters. "Great. Why?"

"Of the three of you, the World Security Council feels you're the one we understand the least. Jordin says you're the most powerful of your siblings, but you've always worked with us best."

"And this puts me under more suspicion than them?"

"No. It's that they can't puzzle out your motivation for being so loyal to a planet – to a people – that really isn't yours."

Hellie can only stare at him in disbelief. It's totally outrageous, but really, what was she expecting? _Logic?_ SHIELD, as an organization, is impressive, but it's only around thirty years old. Hellie…well she's been around for significantly longer. She can't expect them to understand that this planet – while, yes, not her own – has been the only home she's ever known. Its people have been her friends, her lovers, her children. Outside of her mother and brothers, every other person of significance in her life has been a human being. To abandon them, for someone she has never met, and only heard of in stories? It's unthinkable.

_Sometimes_, she thinks bitterly, _this human obsession with blood being thicker than water is just ridiculous._

"This is _my home_, Nicholas," she says her voice brittle with anger, soft but strident. "It always has been and it always will be. And anyone who tries to take it from us will rue the day they tried."

Far from being offended, Nick Fury simply smiles.

"I was hoping you'd say that…"

**3.**

When Phil wakes, it's to look up into a pair of very familiar blue eyes.

"Hello," he says vaguely, feeling muzzy and warm. Everything is hazed with sunlight and it makes a gold halo of the flyways in Hellie's dark hair.

Hellie smiles at him, radiant. "Hello yourself. By the way, you ever die on me like that again, I'll kill you dead."

"I 'spect nothing less," Phil slurs cheerfully. "S'what friend're for."

"Honestly," she says in a tone that Phil knows means she's deliriously happy. "I let you out of my sight for a few measly years and what happens?"

Phil chuckles sleepily. "Missed you too."

Hellie scoffs and squeezes his hand. "It's the final straw, Phillip. You're going to have to come home with me."

"Okay," Phil yawns, and lets himself nod off again, utterly unconcerned.

After all, he's been meaning to book a spot of annual leave.

**oOo**

Auckland is just the way Phil left it; wet.

"I thought you were prescribing me sunshine," he says to Hellie as they draw up to the house.

"Well, it's May, you know what this place is like. Four seasons in one day and all," Hellie says, smiling and tucking herself under his arm as he climbs from the cab. "Although Met Service says we can look forward to a decent break in the clouds by the weekend."

"Where would you like these?" their driver asks, lifting their bags from the trunk – boot, they call it the boot here – and Hellie directs him to the porch while she leads Phil inside.

It's remarkably unchanged here; a narrow hall with a long wooden coat rack mounted on the left wall and a brass umbrella stand in the right corner by the front door, exposed wooden skirting-boards and doorframes, hand-painted wallpaper...

Above him are the bungalow's original crown mouldings, though he thinks they might've been repainted recently, and the doors lining the hallway he knows lead to the bedrooms – one is open, the guest room he guesses will be his, and he can see that same brass-framed bed with its matching side tables. There are new pictures on the walls instead of the remembered Gaudi prints; he recognises one of Jordin's watercolours and a painting of a woman with a cat on her lap that may or may not be an undiscovered Vermeer (look, it's entirely possible, she's been around).

The living room is exactly as he remembers, however – same squashy armchairs and over-stuffed bookshelves and the walnut baby grand in the corner by the bay window. The dogs are sunning themselves on the rug, or at least, Skolly is – Hattie has crept up onto the sofa. Phil carefully lowers himself down next to her and rubs a hand over her rough pelt of black and grey. She lets out one of those soft canine groans of contentment, then peels one electric blue eye open to look at him, bushy tail beating against the cushions.

"Hey girl," he says, "miss me."

When he looks up, Hellie is leaning against the back of the biggest armchair, eyes soft, like blue velvet in the winner's circle, and she murmurs, "We all have."


End file.
